Gather the Tropes
by Paintastics
Summary: Popular fandom tropes/fanfic clichés.
1. Reichenbach Falls

**Reichenbach Falls**:

_It is a place I am loath to return to and yet I find it as inescapable as the roaring waters themselves. I don't know how many times I've see that void of mist before my eyes, imagining the calls which resonate off the walls. To this day I continue to find people asking me about it. I smile at them kindly enough and inform them that any and all questions regarding the events of that day could be found in my account of it. I am then met by surprise and scrutiny as most probably think it is my way of increasing purchases or profiteering off my dear friend's death. But they could not be more wrong. _

_Whenever someone asked, I offered to give them one of my very own copies._

_But like an angry ghost which haunts my every thought, I find myself once again sitting in an empty room putting pen to paper and returning to that wretched memory. Apparently, those events to which I poured my heart were not enough_.

Doctor Watson squeezed the pen between his fingers. "I can't do this."

"Oh, but you must." said a quiet voice.

"I... please, there is nothing more to add!"

"There is always _something_ more to add. You left many a day unaccounted for during your little frolic through the continent. Why not tell us what happened?"

"Nothing of importance, I can assure you-"

"I thought you cared for your detective. Am I wrong? Were those last days with him really so... unimportant?"

"Of course they were important!" The doctor shouted. "They're all I can think about anymore."

"That won't due. That _really_ won't due."

Footsteps move behind him, pacing, stopping, foot tapping, back to pacing.

Watson lost his patience. "What do you want to hear? Do you want to know what we had for breakfast each morning of every day? Do you want me to recount the flowers? I remember the soil round the falls fairly well. In fact, I can give you a sample off the trousers I wore that day." And quietly, "I've never been able to wear them since..."

The man moved beyond Watson's vision and began rummaging through his medical papers. He picked up a diagram showing the correct way to reset a broken femur. "Did you draw this yourself?"

Watson blinked, confused, before turning his head. Unable to make out his captor's face, he could clearly see the paperwork in his hands. "I like to draw up my own diagrams from time to time. It helps ground my knowledge as well as pass the time."

"You have a lot of time for such things now, I suppose." He laughed, soft and even warming, if only he wasn't holding a gun to Watson's head.

"The small and precise lines required for an accurate depiction of bone-structure is both relaxing and forwarding."

The man spat. "I'm not here to discuss your professional life, Doctor. I'm only here to oversee your private installment of what actually happened that day."

Watson sunk in his chair.

"Please, sir, I have nothing, _nothing_ to add to this horrible event."

"I just want to know what transpired between yourself and Mr. Holmes on those final nights. Won't you indulge these scenes with a truly devoted reader?"

"I don't like what you're implying,"

"I imply nothing! What do you- oh! My word, Dr. Watson, I can assure you it's nothing like that! I only meant that night is the time when _nothing_ becomes _something_. I have known of your friend Holmes for quite a while now. He's a fascinating character, one who I imagine has fascinating conversations when the defenses are down and the emotions are high. I mean clearly, he had no intentions of returning from the trip."

Watson wanted to tackle this strange man whose name he didn't even know. He wanted to pick the revolver from his drawer and shoot the man in the eyes; surely Lestrade would understand. But maybe not. Still, he would do anything, if only he weren't bound by waist and ankle to his chair.

"I see you're in neither a writing nor talking mood tonight. Shame, you seem like such a tongue in your stories."

An arm reached over his shoulder, picking up the pen and placing it between Watson's fingers.

"Write."

"I can't."

"You can't? You mean to say that you're done exploiting your friend's work?"

So true had it felt that the statement made Watson's chest deflate.

"An interesting man doesn't always make a pleasant man. Seeing as how you are neither, it's only natural that you should cling to someone like Sherlock Holmes. Hoping to catch some of his attention, perhaps. How is that going, by the way? Still silent? Doctor, I only want to know what happened. I'm not asking you for much."

He'd been held captive for nearly an hour now. The stranger had surprised him, devil knows how, and kept a keen eye and sharp tongue without a moment's falter. Not knowing what to do, only sure that he had no choice but to concede, Watson looked down at the paper beneath his pen. Ink dripped black splotches over the words, sweat from his fingertips swelling the parchment. The man was watching him silently. All he had hoped to do this evening was slunk before his fire and drink himself into oblivion. He could do that now that Mary was visiting family outside of London. In the well known face of ineludible circumstances, the doctor's mind sunk back to the night before the incident. He recalled eating a plate of chicken and various vegetables while Holmes barely touched his lamb. Moriarty was heavy on his mind, Watson knew.

Still, they retired to their room after dinner finding no excuse to stay out. The beds were small but comfortable for the chill weather, thick blankets promising a warm and restful sleep. But the night was young yet, as they sat up on Watson's bed discussing the mountains which had so captivated them earlier in the day. _ One never realizes how beautiful mountains are until one is away from them for so long_, Watson mused. Holmes had told him about how mountain soil differed from the soil found in London; it was not something Watson needed to know, but it was still interesting to hear. In turn, he conversed with Holmes about what he should do in a situation where certain parts of the body were equally damaged at the same time as another, and which he should attend to first. Holmes answered that he couldn't possibly say, as the incident itself would determine the right course of action. Watson accepted this, and the conversation went on in a similar fashion. By the time midnight struck, the two men were laughing and reminiscing over life at Baker Street. As their laughter quieted, the smiles subsiding, Holmes had pressed Watson's hand affectionately before slipping off to his own bed.

Now there was something. Small and completely forgotten about, it would seem; lost amongst the chaos of everything else that happened that day.

Watson looked at the dripped and feathering ink on his paper. His thumb, up until now spotlessly clean, pressed into the ink and gently smeared it over the surface. The stranger smiled, having got his victim in the right state of mind at last.

_But there is nothing more I can tell the public, _he wrote_, which would satisfy further curiosity. My tale has been told as best it could ever be. _

When it was first demanded of Watson to compose a new handwritten account, the pen had been reluctantly scratched across the paper. But the new lines which were to follow began flowing lovingly and carefully like it used to; like it should.

_My friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes was as big a part of my life as is my marriage to the woman I love. Though he left me in such an unforgivable manor, I find that nothing could ever diminish the friendship I hold so sacredly to he who was my greatest companion. _

_I have nothing new to tell Holmes' readers of this event. You will not put this paper down with the satisfaction of new understanding. But for the sake of those who care to listen, who care not only for the magnificent mind but also the magnificent heart, I will offer this small readmittance into what I've come to call The Final Problem. _

He penned out their evening, the delectable food which was never eaten, the comfortable beds which were never slept in. He put a few choice segments of their conversation into words which were, perhaps, a little altered for the sake of word-flow.

The man had looked on patiently, anticipation swelling within his gut. He'd have to remember to ask the good doctor for his autograph when he was through.

By the time Watson finished writing, his intruder had made his way around the study and pocketed some undoubtedly important papers and artifacts. _To the market they'll go_. Watson knew he was going to have to find what was missing and replace it as best he could, but it wasn't enough to dim the new light he felt in his heart. Never thinking a smile could come of this mess, Watson was surprised to find that he was indeed holding back a delighted chuckle. It was hard to admit that Holmes was gone from his life, but one need not dwell in such dark places; his life with Holmes was filled with memories, their every conversation a true treasure of the heart which Watson would carry with him until the day he died. Things hadn't ended badly between the two. In fact, the night before the incident was probably one of the best they've had in a long while.

Watson had his books and memories to turn to whenever his spirits were down. Mary, bless her, was always the warming comfort when times got difficult. Imagining her smile and affection had helped Watson finish off the final words of his account with pride instead of dispair. However, before Watson could replace his pen in the inkwell or skim over what he wrote, his captor had snatched the papers away and immediately read over them himself.

The figure tensed, paper crumpling beneath his grip.

"Is this it? Do you expect me to believe that this is all there is?" he ground out in a snarl.

Watson, still facing forward, shrugged his shoulders. "It is what I have to tell."

"But surely-"

"Sherlock Holmes was a great man. The greatest I've ever met. People everywhere were devastated at his death, and I believed none had suffered more than I."

"This account is rubbish."

"But it's not really true, is it?" he asked, more to himself then to his companion. "I miss him terribly... why, I'd even go so far as to say I felt completely disoriented at times. Though thinking back on it, I suppose I never really considered just how _lucky_ I was to call him my friend at all." His finger twitched as his eyes slid dreamily towards the Alpine-stock leant across his desk. He smiled to himself. "Not many can say that, but I can. And because of that, I think... I think that makes things alright."

The stranger huffed, snatching up Watson's pen and driving it into the wooden desk. "You're worse then you are in the bloody books, man!" he shouted furiously. "Sherlock Holmes knew he was going to die, and I want to know what he lamented during his final days; I want to see him in fear, in completely unknowing and impossible _fear_!"

Watson cringed as the words were spat at the back of his head. Pulling his shoulders forward, he whispered, "Holmes had nothing to fear. I don't believe he ever did. Why must you pry for such things?"

"He's _dead_ now, he won't mind. I'm still waiting to read what I came here to read."

"Holmes told me that if he were to die over this affair, he would be satisfied knowing he accomplished what he had to to secure London from evil. He assured me of this to impose Moriarty's true threat, but I believe he also meant that I need not grieve whatever happened."

The room quieted, but not for too long. "I fear life enjoys watching me suffer." The voice was worn with impatience now. "I've wasted my time here, Doctor. You told me absolutely _nothing_."

Watson nodded, not turning to face the man who had, inadvertently, brought him to terms with Holmes' death.

"I'm sorry, but I told you from the beginning that I had nothing to write. I suppose you're going to kill me now?"

The stranger laughed, deep and throaty as it was, showing his amusement. "Killing isn't my first option, Dr. Watson. You think I'm done with you, you're wrong. But don't keep up waiting for me. When I want you, I'll find you."

The man kneeled behind Watson's chair as he spoke, sliding a knife from his boot and examining it in the gaslight. His face was semi-visible now, what little wasn't obscured by scarf and glasses, as an obvious show of indecisiveness flashed between his eyes and the glinting blade. Finally, the stranger folded Watson's account and placed it in his pocket. Not bothering the grace of another look, he left the knife within reach on the desk and headed for the door.

"If you're thinking about sticking that in my back, don't. You'll never forgive yourself."

"A man of honor, I see. I know a bit about that."

"I'm sure you do."

And with that, the stranger was gone. Watson was left alone with nothing more then the ticking clock on his mantlepiece. He took the knife, simple in appearance yet efficient in purpose, and severed the rope around his waist, then the ones binding his feet. He looked at the weapon held in his hands and decided to keep it in his old trunk as a reminder of this spectacular night. The pen, which was stabbed into the wood, still bled a slick of dark ink which dripped over the edge and onto the floor. Watson decided to clean it up later.

He looked to the door, wondering if what he wrote would ever reach public eye, but realized that it didn't matter. The muscles in his legs protested as he stood up and stretched. His eyes watched the minute hand moving slowly in tandem with the hour, and yet he took no notice of what time it was. Instead, his gaze was centered on the glinting silver cigarette case leant beneath it.

"To pleasant dreams, Holmes. Good night."

* * *

The door to Cavendish Place gently closed shut as a rush of London air blew across the stranger's face. Dr. Watson was no doubt cutting himself loose; most likely heading off to bed with not a care in the world.

The man pressed his hand over the concealed papers and frowned. His head fell back against the wooden door, the scarf falling from his face and the glasses slipping from his eyes. Instead of reliving the death and sorrow like expected, Watson had instead written what could be made up as a breezy farewell to the stranger. _Thank you for dropping by, but I shall not be obliging you this evening because I am too busy being happy_. He laughed at such a thing, replaying the words in his head with the semblance of Dr. Watson. It was only by interruption of the _actual_ man's voice which halted the stranger's thoughts, causing him to drop his hands.

A quiet, muffled bid of parting between two friends, followed by a peaceful silence.

A slight wind beat around his figure as the last echoes of evening faded away. He removed the pilfered Alpine-stock from his other pocket and carefully lit what remaining tobacco filled the bowl. A deep careful breath brought warmth to his chest as a light breeze caressed his face; random lines from the parchment flying before his eyes in the careful, loving manner in which they were writ.

Taking one last look at the closed door, Sherlock Holmes smiled and blew out a plume of blue smoke.

"Good night, Watson," he answered back quietly, stepping into the street.

_And well done_.

* * *

**Is it ironic if what I consider one of my best stories was done in spite of one of my least favorite tropes? -;**


	2. Cocaine

**Holmes goes out to buy cocaine! But Watson's coming along and has no idea!**:

* * *

Holmes had been suffocating himself in his room since the sun came up. The air was stale and warm, causing his shirt to cling to his shoulders. His head was thrown back with eyes burning from the lack of sleep in what could only be the pure essence of fatigue. Even his tongue felt tired; like a choking slab of sticky rubber. Somewhere in the room, Sherlock Holmes could hear a clock ticking for the first time. The first time? Why have I never noticed it before? He still felt incredibly tired and his body cramped from his huddled position beside the bed. His hair hung loosely over his forehead and felt unclean as he pushed it back. A sluggish hand trailed over his cheek and down his neck, rough shades of an oncoming beard prickling his fingertips. How long has it been this time, he wondered?

There was a hollow feeling in his stomach and yet the thought of food completely repulsed him. His eyes fell to wrist that looked frail but that were nothing in comparison to the cadaverish pallor of his skin. Holmes stumbled but eventually erected himself at full height on shaking legs, breathing a lungful of musky air. According to the clock mounted on the wall, it was little past six-thirty in the morning. Hours before Watson was expected to rise. Holmes rubbed his eyes until his vision blurred, causing him to blink much faster then he was up to. Staggering over to his stack of books, Holmes supported himself on one arm as he reached up over his bureau for a brown leather case. Glass bottles rattled as he brought it over to his bed.

He thought about turning up a lamp and examining their contents through the light but decided that the scent of oil was sure to upset his condition. He opened the first with nervous hands and was met with dire disappointment. Empty. All of them. Not at all dismayed, his eye did brightened just a bit when he lifted a particular bottle. As if he were in a trance, his dark eyes followed the clear liquid as it sloshed along the bottom. Enough for one morning, hopefully. _How I ever allowed myself to get so low without replenishment, _he scolded quietly.

His gaze drew across the room to look at his closed door. A shadowy patch obscured the sunlight from forming a straight line beneath the frame. A tea tray, perhaps. Or food. He shook his head and reached for the bedside table.

The black case snapped open quietly as Holmes extracted the syringe. It's thin glass and needle were meticulously cleaned from prior usage as it sucked up the precious seven per-cent solution. Holmes didn't have to think as he mechanically lifted the syringe and rolled the sleeve over his left elbow, wetting his thumb and running it over the tiny pricks in his skin. The needle pressed a new spot, depressing the flesh before finally giving way. Holmes' eyes rolled back as the rush of warmth coursed through his arm, the needle dropping from his hand as he collapsed upon the bed. It should be enough to get to the apothecary, at least.

* * *

Watson was halfway through his toast when Holmes emerged from his bedroom. He was disheveled in appearance, yet his mood light and cheery as he greeted his companion with a smile.

"You seem to have given up the habit of waiting for me, Watson." he said warmly, taking a seat at the table.

Watson brought a cup of coffee to his lips before casually replying, "I thought you'd given up the habit of _eating_, Holmes. My apologies."

"That certainly is a possibility, as I'm loath to admit that I won't be joining you yet again this morning." The corner of his mouth quirked up humorously at the cold plate of eggs (which succeeded well at turning his stomach). "I hope you're not too offended."

"Not at all."

"That's very good of you," He took up the pot of coffee with steady hands and poured himself a generous helping. All Watson had to see him take was one sip, and then the matter could rest.

"What are your plans this evening, Holmes?" Watson asked once his companion was settled, his eyes running over the sharp lines of his face. There was a small spot of red on the lower half of his left jaw- a nick of the razor, probably. Watson handed Holmes a napkin when he didn't respond. "You've a bit of blood on your face there."

Holmes thanked him before taking his customary swig of coffee. Decidedly not hungry and unknowing how much longer he'd last, Holmes pushed himself away from the table in order to leave. "Well Watson, I'm off to run a few early morning errands. I probably won't be seeing you until later this evening."

"Oh, so you _are_ deciding to join me for dinner tonight?" He looked up with clear and hopeful eyes.

Holmes hesitated for a moment, setting his cup on the table and reaching for a distraction in his teaspoon. "Of course!" he smiled. Watson looked pleased with himself as he took up the napkin from his lap and folded it onto the table.

"I'm very glad to hear you say that, Holmes. I've missed you these past few days."

Holmes smirked, taking a rare second sip before deciding to leave the table completely. He could already feel the effects wearing off. He'd have to figure out a way to apologize to Watson when he didn't show up for dinner tonight; something he'd sort out once he had his proper dosage and could think clearly again. Without looking back at the table, Holmes strode to his chair before the fire and lifted the coat which had been carelessly tossed there the night before. Watson was watching him and couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the disreputable piece.

"Where did you say you were going again?" He asked, incase his wardrobe could be of some assistance.

Holmes shrugged as he pulled a scarf over his shoulders. "I'm low on a few key ingredients for my experiments. I'm on my way to the apothecary to replenish them."

"Oh! If that is where you are going, then I'd be happy to accompany you!"

Holmes froze with his coat half on. "There's really no need..."

"Nonsense! Besides, I need to re-stalk my supplies. I was going to go tomorrow, but since you're headed there now," He was already throwing his coat on and topping his hat. He seemed elated to be going out just then, and Holmes couldn't be more distraught. If Watson knew what he really aimed to buy...

"Perhaps you ought to keep to your original plans," he said quickly. "I only mean to say that I've many appointments to follow up with and I wouldn't want-"

"Really, it's nothing, Holmes. I'll go with you to the apothecary and then we can go about our separate ways. But first, we might find a chip stand since you missed breakfast."

Holmes tried in vain to reason with the doctor, but days of separation had left him determined to spend time with Holmes; no matter how reluctant the detective was. It ended with Watson planting a firm hand over Holmes' shoulder, a gleam in his eye and a smile so irresistible that Holmes could not but give in. It's been over half and hour since his last injection, and he was rabidly becoming aware of it.

* * *

Watson snuck a glance every now and then in attempts at rooting his friend's sense of unease but was unsuccessful. Finding the anxious look in Holmes' eyes uncalled for, Watson gently placed his fingers against the agitated knee.

Those vicious grey eyes cut him with a sneer, making him catch his breath.

"Holmes?" he said hesitantly, drawing back.

The detective stared at him before softening his gaze and turning towards the window. He waved his hand to stop Watson from speaking.

"I've a lot on my mind, Watson. It'd benefit us both if you were to remain silent the rest of the way there."

Horses and cabs blurred past the window as small specks of debris clinked against the glass. Holmes tried to keep his voice as calm as possible while refusing to look Watson in the eyes. He knew the hurt he must have inflicted, but he also knew that Watson would forgive him the moment he decided to ask of it. The rest of the ride was made in silence, the movement of the wheels and cab gently swaying their occupants.

Once inside the apothecary Holmes did all he could to avoid the doctor's gaze. Watson had made his way over the counters and selected his purchase, exchanging money for carefully wrapped packets, and wondering why Holmes hadn't done so as well.

"Are you having trouble finding what you're looking for, sir?" Asked the man behind the counter. Holmes waved him off impatiently and turned away. Watson followed up behind him as he lifted and replaced bottles from their shelves.

"Holmes? Is something the matter?"

"No, they just don't have what I need. It really is troubling to think what situations may arise simply because of the insufficiently stocked inventory of this miserable hovel. Must I create everything myself, or am I wrong in this city's growing incompetence?"

Watson narrowed his eyes and pinned Holmes in his gaze. "And what, pray tell, eludes you on such a day to cause this annoyance?"

"It's nothing of your concern, doctor. Maybe it's not even-"

"Holmes!" he gasped. "How on Earth- dear Lord you are a miserable little man, aren't you!"

"I beg your pardon, but I fail to see why you place such rage at my own expense. It's quite embarrassing to raise your voice just as you are, so please, refrain from saying anything more."

"For heaven's sake, Holmes! Do you honestly think I give a bloody damn what they care when my friend is so obviously poisoning himself?"

The store was, luckily, empty this morning and so the heated argument was heard by no one but the confused chemist. But praise be to God, that man knew when to keep out of things.

"Watson, I know of your concerns but they're a wasted effort on my part. I cannot be deterred from my plans, not by you nor by anyone but myself. I've had a jolly good morning as it is but I'm afraid the effects are wearing off and I'm not quite ready to face the ugly truth of my situation just yet. Now unless you have a better idea, I suggest you turn round and continue to deny yourself the truth about your friend."

"Of all the- Holmes, why won't you listen to me? Why are you doing this to yourself?" All trace of anger had left his voice as Watson began pleading to his friend. Holmes, desperately running out of coherent thought, shoved Watson aside as he set himself before the counter. Placing his hands on the cool surface and avoiding eye contact with the clerk, Holmes steadied his nerves and fished out the usual amount from his pocket.

"I'd like three bottles; and if you don't know of what, then I pray to God in Heaven you're not your mother's only child."

The poor man looked between Holmes and Watson, who stood a foot behind his elbow with a look of dejected horror. The doctor put a hesitant hand to Holmes' arm and pinched the fabric.

"Holmes, _please_, you don't need to do this. We can find something... I mean for God's sake this city is _enormous_; we'll find _something_."

He ignored his friend's pleads, choosing instead to stare at the chemist and wait.

His order was filled and Holmes walked out with his prize in his pocket.

"Where are you going?" Watson's voice was heavy with emotion as he watched Holmes bypass cabs.

Without slowing or turning he spat, "Don't talk to me. I can't deal with the world right now, and I especially can't deal with you."

Watson swore and jogged after his friend. "I'm going to help you with this, Holmes. I know you only do this when your mind isn't occupied, but we'll find a solution."

"We won't be doing anything of the sorts. Please, I implore you, drop the matter or lose yourself elsewhere."

His feet wouldn't move after that, feeling as though they've been incased in lead and melted to the street. Holmes, unknowing or uncaring, continued in his pace towards Baker Street. Watson clenched his jaw and looked down at the dirt.

"You've no idea what this is doing... Holmes, I'm not living your image in lies but if you're so set on being such a stubborn fool then I know... I know I can't interfere."

Holmes stopped and turned to face his companion. In a flat and emotionless voice, he said, "It would be my pleasure to dine with you this evening, Watson, but I won't. Instead I shall be locked away in my room indulging in the vice which I can't nor want to cease. I know this is against your carefully constructed advice, but I'll apologize when my sobriety is at an end. Until that time..." He did not say. Instead he smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up mockingly as his eyes glittered in sick victory. When Watson heaved a heavy breath and sunk, his spirits broken and his heart in ruins, Holmes remained unaffected. Not knowing what else to say, Watson turned reluctantly against the foot traffic and soon became lost amongst the crowd.

The snarkish grin remained plastered to Holmes' face as he watched him go. His fingers closed around the small paper packet in his pocket where he could feel the hard surfaces beneath. The promises and the bliss, the excitement of home but minutes away, Holmes happily continued down his path without a second thought.


End file.
